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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828626">Heart &amp; Shoal</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarrulousGibberish/pseuds/SightKeeper'>SightKeeper (GarrulousGibberish)</a>, <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf'>ZehWulf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Bickering, Community: Do It With Style Events, Fae &amp; Fairies, Fae Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff and Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Romantic Comedy, Secret Identity, Selkie Aziraphale (Good Omens), Selkies, Small Towns, in as much as they are both pretending to be human</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 12:47:31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,002</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28828626</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarrulousGibberish/pseuds/SightKeeper, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZehWulf/pseuds/ZehWulf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>More than the loss of the skin—which was enough of a problem to be getting on with, thank you—the problem was, Aziraphale had done the wrong thing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If he could say to Gabriel that he'd simply seen a creature in distress and decided to help, he might not be forgiven, but he probably wouldn't be cast out. But, knowingly saving a human from drowning was beyond the pale. He was meant to be spying on them, not helping them.</em>
</p><p>OR</p><p>Aziraphale is a selkie whose lost skin is somewhere in the village of Tadfield; Crowley is a fay who considers Tadfield his personal garden to cultivate and protect. They're drawn to each other, but neither is willing to divulge their secret. Naturally, a lot of inconvenient feelings and small-town hijinks ensue anyway.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>143</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Created as part of the <a href="https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/">Do It With Style Reverse Big Bang event</a>. Art and beta work by SightKeeper, writing by ZehWulf.</p><p>Massive props and love to SightKeeper, who had not just the brilliant piece of prompt art (which will be featured in the final chapter) but also had a great fic premise that kicked this whole thing off and has been a superb brainstorming partner and cheerleader the whole way.</p><p><b>Posting Note:</b> This fic is... a little over half written, and I don't plan on posting additional chapters until I get the first full draft done (in case I need to tweaky tweak things). BUT! I'm actively working to get this wrapped up ahead of some other deadline-y projects on the horizon, so I don't anticipate a huge wait. Maybe a couple of weeks before chapter 2, and then posting should be regular through the end. :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><hr/><p>More than the loss of the skin—which was enough of a problem to be getting on with, thank you—the problem was, Aziraphale had done the wrong thing.</p><p>If he could say to Gabriel that he'd simply seen a creature in distress and decided to help, he might not be forgiven, but he probably wouldn't be cast out. But, knowingly saving a human from drowning was beyond the pale. He was meant to be spying on them, not helping them.</p><p>Unfortunately—for his future in the pod and, it would be argued, the safety of his kind—when he saw the small figure slip on the jutting rocks and fall into the dark sea, he hadn't hesitated to change course. And once committed to the act, he wasn't going to leave the bedraggled child to succumb to either shock or exposure on the damp rocks in the cold shore wind. That would rather defeat the purpose of fetching him from the water in the first place. So it naturally followed that he would lend his seal skin, magically warm, to the poor thing while they waited on an outcropping on the opposite end of the shore to see what help the boy's friends might be able to fetch from further inland.</p><p>Perhaps that, he thought with a martyr's stoicism, was the true root of the issue: Despite the secret cold war his kind viewed themselves to be embroiled in with humanity, he rather liked humans. After centuries of spying and intelligence gathering, not only did he think the stories of the danger they posed to his people a little overblown—or at least not statistically significant—he also didn't think they were so different from selkie folk, really. In the immediate aftermath of the boy's tumble, the others had been frantic, but by the time Aziraphale had surfaced with the boy a safe distance away, they'd organized. Two had raced further inland while one remained to keep watch, still calling a name snatched away by the whipping wind. And now there was a veritable frenzy of humans on what passed for a beach, torchlights bobbing and flashing like a frantic school of lantern fish, as they looked after the injured member of their pod.</p><p>However, when he got right down to it—was really, truly honest with himself—the problem wasn't saving the child or even lending the cloak. He'd performed rather ill-advised acts of kindness toward humans before when away from the watchful eyes of his pod. By all rights, he should have been able to fetch back his skin at the first sign of returning torchlights and slipped back into the sea with no human the wiser of his exploits.</p><p>"You see, Gabriel," he muttered to himself as he watched the last of the humans retreat further inland with the boy, their torches, and his precious skin, "it's all down to a bit of algae."</p><p>The combination of the high wind, dark night, and his attention being split between the half-drowned child in his temporary care and the other one across the shore, meant he'd been startled by the first alarmingly bright sweeps of torchlight on the rocks when help finally did arrive. One instinctive flinch and he had tumbled into the water with a yelp before he'd been able to snatch his skin back.</p><p>Since Gabriel hadn't set foot on dry land more than three times in his millenia-long existence, Aziraphale didn't think he'd appreciate the irony of him succumbing to a variation of a slapstick routine he'd first seen in a comedy reel entitled "By the Sea."</p><p>"Come on, Aziraphale," he chided himself, "buck up."</p><p>There was still a way to save this, and Gabriel and the rest of the pod would never have to know. They weren't <em>really</em> expecting him back for roughly seven weeks. So long as he could find his skin within a reasonable amount of time, it should all be absolutely tickety-boo. After all, while it wasn't as though he made a <em>habit</em> of losing his skin, there had been a few close calls in the past, and he'd never had an issue convincing the human who had stumbled upon it to give it back.</p><p>True, he'd never lost his skin quite so <em>quickly</em> before; in the handful of times it had been discovered, it was only after he'd become relaxed enough to trust that whatever temporary friend he'd made wasn't the sort who'd go stealing someone's precious things anyway.</p><p>Working in his favor was the knowledge that most stories of his kind had gentled from wary lore to wistful fantasy, at least from what he'd gathered during his last few visits to land. No one should be looking at a seal skin and automatically thinking "selkie!"</p><p>Hopefully.</p><p>In any case, if he made the recovery <em>quickly</em> enough, there shouldn't be enough <em>time</em> for anyone to go drawing strange conclusions. Beyond wondering why an apparently middle-aged man who'd been swimming in the ocean in the dead of night might want a seal skin, of course.</p><p>Oh, good lord.</p><p>No, he shouldn't go borrowing trouble. Surely, the boy lived in a local village and this would all be over quickly. This stretch of shore felt a bit spooky to him—in fact, he'd been intending to swim several more miles to find a likely coastal town to visit for his bicentennial investigation and report—but where there were humans, there was human civilization.</p><p>Honestly, the only thing he should be worrying about, he told himself sternly, was that the hunt for his skin would downgrade the visit to a proper investigation instead of a holiday where he made idle notes on technological progress in between reading new books, sampling human cuisine, and taking in a bit of theater.</p><p>Well, he would just have to make do.</p><p>He might have to get creative about sending in his progress reports, but…</p><p>With any luck, he'd be reunited with his skin in a matter of days, and it wouldn't matter!</p><p>Of course, that was when the skies opened up and lightning forked across the sky.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    
  </p>
</div><hr/><p>"Last night's storm was something else, now, wasn't it?" the woman remarked with the mingled relish and vague horror of benign gossips everywhere. "Emergency was all over—I don't think those poor dears got a wink of sleep. I heard at least three summer families are having to pack up early and head to the city, and that's just in Tadfield!"</p><p>Aziraphale fought to keep his look of polite concern from slipping into alarmed devastation. The woman sharing the cafe counter with him—Tracy—caught something of his true feelings anyway. She gave his arm a motherly pat and clucked her tongue.</p><p>"No need to worry, duckie. I haven't gotten all the gossip yet, but if something truly terrible had happened, you can bet it would be all over town by now. We're not as big a tourist draw as Evesdale, so we have to take our excitement where we can."</p><p>Aziraphale clutched his mug of tea a little tighter and tried not to fret too visibly. After retrieving his waterproof travel bag (luckily it had not drifted too far from where he'd dropped it rescuing the boy), donning his land clothes and accessories, and waiting until a reasonable hour of the morning to approach the village, the place had been as stirred up as an excited shoal of silverfish.</p><p>"In fact," Tracy went on, clearly trying to cheer him up, "I'll bet the unexpected clearout will turn out in your favor. I heard Mr. Sanderson grumbling that his summer help has to go fill in for someone <em>else </em>who lost <em>their</em> summer help. If you hurry, you might be able to snap up the opening before he has a chance to put up the 'help wanted' sign."</p><p>Oh, well, that <em>was </em>a bit of good news. Securing temporary lodgings and a reason to hang about whatever village he was in was always top of his to-do list when he made landfall. A job of some sort was usually the least suspicious way to blend in and exchange his old-fashioned currency for new.</p><p>"What sort of shop does Mr. Sanderson have?"</p><p>"A bookshop."</p><p>"How marvelous!" His spirits lifted even further.</p><p>Tracy preened. "There we are, then. And if you can't find a decent room at one of the inns, you come round my bungalow. I have a guest room I sometimes let on AirBnB, and I have no issue negotiating a lower rate in exchange for a bit of help around the cottage, if you're keen."</p><p>Even more of the tension in his shoulders eased. Humans really were such lovely creatures. Sometimes he had to do a bit of wandering before he could find a place to play professional tourist, but just as often he found a kind soul or community willing to lend him a bit of space, however temporary.</p><p>"My dear lady, I just might take you up on that kind offer."</p><p>She gave him a knowing look. "I've been where you are before."</p><p>Oh, he highly doubted that, but he gave her a politely inquisitive look anyway.</p><p>"Wandering into a new town on foot, your nice clothes a little out of fashion, money looking like it's spent some time rolled up in a sock drawer." He received another motherly pat to the arm. "You're looking for a clean start, to maybe lie low for a bit, hmm? Well, I'd be the last to judge you, duckie, and I won't go prying into your secrets either—unless you want a strictly confidential ear to bend, mind."</p><p>Aziraphale blinked and blushed. She had… rather the wrong end of things, but while he couldn't say he was delighted by the implications, he also wasn't going to turn his nose up at a readymade cover story. He was rather awful at lying under pressure. Telling the truth in a very particular way, however...</p><p>"You are a gift, Madame Tracy," he said solemnly. "And you're right, I am… here under a bit of unusual circumstances and, well, looking to find a bit of myself, one might say."</p><p>She raised an artfully painted eyebrow at him. "Aren't we all?"</p>
<hr/><p>Crowley stalked the main street of Tadfield and surveyed his domain with eyes narrowed behind the veil of dark sunglasses. It was a full day past the summer squall that had upset the beehive of his town, and as its self-appointed keeper he was annoyed to see there was still so much agitation apparent.</p><p>Sure, he'd allowed that <em>one</em> bolt of lightning to slip through his influence and strike Old Johnson's dilapidated barn. The Johnsons, had they been present, likely would have whooped for joy at the calamity insurance claim they'd be able to file and then rolled back over in bed. But Crowley... may have forgotten Missus Johnson had dragged the pair of them off to sunnier climes for the summer and had rented the main house to a young family that wasn't made of near as stern of stuff. They'd hightailed it back to… wherever. He typically didn't make a point of learning the tourists' backstories until they'd turned up at least three or four seasons in a row.</p><p>Between that, the roof leak in the Smythe guest cottage, and the accident with Adam Young, there were quite a few tourists who'd decided to cut their summer plans short by a day or week. The loss of income wouldn't be too troublesome, but it certainly threw a wrench in a lot of people's plans, and for a sleepy village like Tadfield, even a little upset had an outsized impact.</p><p>What was troubling Crowley the most about the series of little misfortunes was that while it could be coincidence, just a bit of bad luck, it might instead be a sign of… <em>meddling</em>.</p><p>Crowley abhorred meddling—unless it was orchestrated by himself, of course. This was his territory; this was his village. Only he got to yank its pigtails, thank you very much.</p><p>And just this morning, he'd heard from Newt who'd had it from Shadwell who'd been "performing inspection" (spying) on Mr. Sanderson's bookshop that there was a stranger who'd apparently shown up the morning after the squall and was miraculously available to take over when Wensleydale had to return to the family business roost upon the Young's departure. Suspicious timing, that was. The storm had had his wards in a tizzy, which could have been cover for some other fay to skulk in under his nose, looking to make mischief on his territory.</p><p>So, here he was at the unreasonable hour of ten in the morning in the village square, bent on getting a proper look at this interloper and assessing the situation.</p><p>"Mr. Crowley," barked a voice from the front steps of the village town hall. "A word?"</p><p>He groaned softly and then turned a mildly feral smile on the self-appointed head of the Neighborhood Watch.</p><p>"Ronny, how are you this fine morning?"</p><p>R.P. Tyler's jaw clenched. "Now see here, young man, that is hardly the proper form of address for a member of the council and head of the Watch!"</p><p>Crowley couldn't help either his grin at the "young man" jibe or the loosening of his shoulders at the reprimand. If Tyler were truly pissed with Crowley or worried about something, he'd keep calm and carry on with whatever his "word" was instead of taking a moment to get shirty.</p><p>He affected an indulgent pout. "Is that your way of hinting I should take up the council seat dear old Dad left me?"</p><p>Once upon a time, when Tadfield was drafting its village charter, Antonius Janus Crowley The Second had convinced the founders to put in a clause allowing any person whose direct ancestor had held a council seat the choice of taking up that same seat upon the latter's passing. He'd painted a bucolic picture of Enduring Values and Tradition and a way to entice young folks who strayed afield to return to their home turf. Crowley didn't take up his guaranteed seat with every regeneration of his identity—politics in a small town was a surprising amount of work—but it was fun to lord the possibility over blowhards like Tyler.</p><p>"I think we have quite enough young blood on the council with that… American witch taking the Nutter seat, thank you." Crowley never failed to be delighted that Tyler packed so much more contempt into "American" than "witch" when he whinged about Anathema. "No, I wanted to know if you'd chanced upon the new visitor to our fine village yet."</p><p>Crowley stood straighter. "No, have you?"</p><p>Tyler's mustache bristled. "Hm, not yet. He's renting from Ms. Potts, and she was... monopolizing his time at the pub last evening. However, I know you take coffee with her regularly..."</p><p>Crowley hummed and turned his face back toward the bookshop at the end of the street. Knowing Tracy was not just shielding this new stranger from R.P. Tyler's busybody scorn but letting him into her home went a long way toward reassuring him there was nothing sinister going on. She joked that in her former lines of work she wouldn't be able to put food on the table if she wasn't able to judge someone's character in a few minute's chatting. If she was taking this new person under her wing, he was likely harmless.</p><p>Didn't hurt to check for himself, though.</p><p>"How about, I'll just pop in Mr. Sanderson's shop," he proposed. "I find I'm in need of a new coffee table book."</p><p>R.P. Tyler, the absolute berk, honest to goodness tapped his finger to the side of his nose. "Good man," he said on a gravely laugh.</p><p>Crowley grimaced a smile back and sauntered on his way with a brief, "Ciao."</p><p>"That is hardly the Queen's English!" spluttered Tyler, whatever favorable opinion he'd decided to bestow on Crowley immediately dashed.</p><p>Crowley grinned, feeling his eye teeth sharpen briefly in puckish glee.</p><p>When he breezed into Sanderson's Scrolls, the dramatic pause he took in the doorway served three purposes: to let his eyes adjust to the relative gloom of the shop, to attempt to spy the interloper's location, and to strike an insouciant pose that would set the proper tone for whatever conversation he was about to have, should said interloper be watching the door.</p><p>"Oh! Welcome!" said a voice threaded with the faintest hint of anxiety to his immediate right.</p><p>Crowley flinched and bit back a yelp, stumbling as he tried to pivot toward the source of the voice and step back at the same time. All he got was a blurred impression of creams and beiges before he overbalanced and his attention was overcome by the swoop in his gut as he started to fall and a flailing attempt to catch onto something.</p><p>A warm hand gripped him by the wrist and pulled him back upright. He closed his hand instinctively back over the other's forearm and stumbled forward a step as he regained his balance. It put him in abrupt and overwhelming proximity to the stranger. The smear of colors resolved into a cherubic face with storm-sea eyes, whitecap hair, and a seashell pink mouth parted in startled surprise.</p><p>"My goodness, are you all right?" the man asked, eyebrows rolling up in distress. "I didn't mean to startle you. I was working on the window display for Mr. Sanderson, and I was so absorbed I didn't see you walk up. Oh, but this little nook here really is quite disguised from the door, isn't it? I'll have to keep that in mind in future." He closed his eyes and took a visibly calming breath. "My sincerest apologies," he settled on, tone aggrieved.</p><p>Crowley was absolutely bemused by the anxious deluge of words, but the rambling had also allowed him to have a bit of a moment of his own under relative cover, so he decided not to poke the man about it (this time).</p><p>"No harm done," he said.</p><p>A sudden squeeze on his wrist reminded him that they were still grasping each other. He looked down and noted strong hands with squared-off fingertips, a hint of gold on the pinky, before the other man gave a scandalized-sounding "ah" and yanked his hand back.</p><p>"Terribly sorry. I didn't mean to paw at you."</p><p>Crowley thought about letting the man stew, but he was looking so worked up he might bolt before Crowley could properly feel him out. So, social graces it was.</p><p>"Don't worry about it," he said and eased his posture to telegraph just how unbothered he was. "It would have been mutual pawing, anyway, wouldn't it? So, I should probably be saying sorry to you, and thanking you for saving me from a tumble." Probably should, yes, even though he wouldn't. The last thing he needed was to get tangled in a debt with this stranger.</p><p>"Oh, thank <em>you</em> for not minding my boorish behavior. It's my first day on the job, and I do wish for things to go smoothly." He fussed with the faded nap of his waistcoat and glanced around the shop as though he thought Sanderson might materialize to critique his customer service.</p><p>Crowley fought to keep his smile from growing too wide and pointed for human sensibilities at the perfect opening. "Not just on vacation, then? Sticking around for awhile?"</p><p>The other man seemed to remember himself and rolled his shoulders back. "Why, yes! I can't say for quite how long, but for a good while, probably. I'm Aziraphale, by the way." He thrust his hand out to shake.</p><p>"Crowley," he said as he took the offered hand.</p><p>There was a long beat before Aziraphale hastily pumped their clasped hands up and down exactly three times and dropped them again. Then he was back to fidgeting with his waistcoat and pinky ring. He flicked Crowley a wincing smile.</p><p>"I am gratified to make your acquaintance, Mr. Crowley."</p><p>Aziraphale, Crowley concluded, was odd—categorically so. The mannerisms, the clothes, even his looks were… odd. Crowley couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something that hovered around him that hinted at something more or less than human. It didn't have the right signature for another one of the fay, however, which was his primary concern. Maybe he just had a little otherworldly oomph in his bloodline, like Anathema. Or something haunting it, like Newt.</p><p>But now Aziraphale was leaning in slightly, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between the lenses of Crowley's sunglasses, a little divot forming between his eyebrows. Ah, right, he'd put on a pair that wasn't quite as opaque as his usual.</p><p>Crowley leaned back and tapped the arms of the frames and rearranged his face into stoic lines. "Hereditary thing."</p><p>Aziraphale lost what little color he had in his face. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to stare."</p><p>"Don't worry about it." He spun on the ball of one foot and paced further into the shop. "What's new in? Sanderson usually has a list."</p><p>That redirected the other man firmly enough, if only because he had to return to the pay counter to retrieve the list. From there, it didn't take much to keep his attention focused on the job.</p><p>Crowley formed several further impressions about Aziraphale over the next ten minutes or so of conversation: that he was very intelligent, that his taste in literature was as dated as his clothes, and that, all things being equal, he'd probably say yes if Crowley asked him out for a coffee. There was a certain flutter to his lashes when he watched Crowley pick up and play with the small decorative globe Sanderson kept on the pay counter. Crowley, of course, took the interest as his due. He worked quite hard to cultivate a certain look, after all.</p><p>However, all things were decidedly not equal, because while Crowley was still trying to subtly taste the air and figure out just what it was that was out of the ordinary about Aziraphale, the other man seemed to be sizing him up in a similar manner. The way he occasionally narrowed his eyes when he met Crowley's gaze for too long, and seemed to be eyeing the air just around Crowley's body the way Anathema would when she was being particularly vexing, was pricking Crowley's finely honed self-preservation instincts. And, well, there was a reason he gave the witch a wide berth. So, he made some non-committal noises over a new astronomy book that had come in, wrapped up the chat, and saw himself out before any conclusions could be drawn on either side.</p><p>He was at least satisfied that this new addition to his village didn't appear to be an immediate threat.</p><p>Further investigation was warranted. But next time he'd wear his darker sunglasses. And maybe an aura dampener.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Leeeeet the shenanigans begin!!!</p><p>If you want to be social, come find us on your platform of choice! SightKeeper (<a href="https://sightkeeper.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/SightKeeper">Twitter</a>, <a href="https://www.instagram.com/sightkeeper/">Instagram</a>) // ZehWulf (<a href="https://zehwulf.tumblr.com/">Tumblr</a>, <a href="https://twitter.com/zehwulf">Twitter</a>).</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hiiiiiii, Wulf here. So, I'm slogging through getting the first draft committed to paper, BUT my lovely RBB partner SightKeeper has been helping me figure out in more detail what's happening in the final two chapters, which makes me feel more confident about continuing to post before it's 100% drafted. :') (fwiw, chapter 4 is halfway written, and chapter 3 is so big I'm wondering if I should break it into two parts and up the chapter count to 6--haha.)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>"Anthony Jareth Crowley, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," Tracy scolded. She was wearing her "local mum at the bake sale" look today, all pastels and pearl-button cardigan and softly styled blond wig, so she <em>looked</em> about as intimidating as an angora rabbit, but her tone was severe enough Crowley couldn't fully suppress a wince. She followed the remonstration with a pointed sip of her tea (recently doctored with a generous dollop of whiskey from her flask).</p>
<p>He spread his hands wide over the scant surface area of the cafe tabletop. "What? I can't be interested in the new person in town? You're the one always telling me I shouldn't just ignore newcomers."</p>
<p>"'Interested' is fine, but you're being nosey. He's a perfectly lovely man who's had a hard time of it recently, from what I gather. But I won't be poking into his business, and neither should you. No one owes anyone their secrets, so long as they're not hurting anyone." The look she gave him was so pointed it pricked. Crowley resisted fiddling with the stylish (<em>he</em> thought) silver-link chain—recently spelled to dampen his aura—hanging from his neck. Sometimes, he wondered…</p>
<p>"Ugh, fine," he groaned and melted even more bonelessly over the too-small chair. About a decade ago he'd run a subtle influence campaign in response to some of the local restaurants and cafes getting it into their heads that wrought iron garden chairs were just the thing for their outdoor seating. He'd been hoping for some tastefully carved wood replacements. Instead, someone had seen a "coastal inspo" Pinterest something or other and he was stuck with variations of twee, white-painted rattan.</p>
<p>"If you're that curious about him, you could try talking to him yourself," she said mildly.</p>
<p>He pulled a face and looked out over the village square, which was really more of a wonky pentagon. Shadwell was picketing exactly one-hundred and fifty metres from the entrance of Anathema's hybrid local history and occult miscellania shop, per their cold war arrangement. Crowley found Shadwell exhausting, but he was occasionally useful sniffing out suspicious characters. Maybe Crowley would drop a word in his ear later today.</p>
<p>"I'll let him get settled, first," he said, trying to sound grudging to throw Tracy off the scent. He <em>could</em> shake up his routine and try interacting with the unsettling stranger more directly, but he much preferred to keep his presence in the village balanced on the knife's edge between aloof and lurking, barring a few cultivated relationships to keep his reputation from unexpectedly nosediving.</p>
<p>Tracy's answering hum was in the key of "I don't believe you, but I'm too polite to call you a liar, but I <em>also </em>want you to know that I know." Crowley flashed her his best shit-eating grin in return.</p>
<p>"Still need me to have a look at your garden?" he asked. Her fig tree had been acting up lately, and he could use a good vent. She'd probably make him some jam for his troubles, besides, so it was a literally fruitful arrangement.</p>
<p>"Oh, no, I had Newt over to do the gutters, and he suggested a new fertilizer he heard about from his mum, and it's working a treat. But it's very kind of you to offer, love."</p>
<p>Crowley scowled at her. She knew how he felt about four-letter words like that. He wasn't kind. Even if she didn't know the extent of it, he considered himself more of a benevolent liege who knew if he kept his serfs content they were less likely to stage an uprising.</p>
<p>In defiance of the natural order between their two species, she dimpled at him and gave the back of his hand a motherly pat. "Now, now, if you keep that up, your handsome face is going to get stuck that way."</p>
<p>He scowled harder. Tracy sipped her boozy tea serenely.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"He's a witch," Shadwell reported a few days later. "No doubt about it."</p>
<p>Crowley held onto his patience by a very thin thread. "Seen the extra nipples firsthand, have you?"</p>
<p>Shadwell let out a flurry of enraged and dubiously Northern curses. "Of course not! But I know a witch when I see one! I even got a good poke in with my witch-finding pin—narry a flinch!"</p>
<p>Considering the Shadwell family witch-finding pin had lost its point three generations ago when Anthony Juno Crowley got mighty tired of dodging pokes, and that every time Crowley had spied Aziraphale the last few days he was wearing upwards of four layers even in bloody August, this didn't surprise him. But, since sometimes the best way to get useful information out of Shadwell was to accept some of his barmier beliefs at face value…</p>
<p>"Is he more of a 'puts a blight on the crops for a laugh' witch or a 'will purify your house for a fair barter' witch?"</p>
<p>Shadwell narrowed his eyes at him but conceded, "I cannae tell, yet. When he's not at the bookshop he's sticking close to the fair Jezebel's side."</p>
<p>"You don't sound too bothered by that. Shadwell, I am astonished."</p>
<p>The witchfinder shifted uncomfortably and opened his mouth a few times before saying, with a frankly amazing amount of delicacy compared to his normal, "Och, I don't think her flower is the sort he likes to pluck. More of a pansy enthusiast, if you take my meaning."</p>
<p>Crowley grinned at him, sharp. "That was positively civilized of you, Shadwell. Well done."</p>
<p>For whatever hilarious reason, Shadwell thought Crowley was mafia, which suited Crowley down to the ground. He wasn't about to give him any reason to go looking deeper, even if the man was about as deep as a piece of tracing paper. But it also meant that when Crowley had not-so-subtly made clear he was queer in the more human sense, Shadwell had sweated bullets but started making an effort to be fractionally more polite about certain things, at least in front of Crowley. (Tracy seemed to derive a perverse pleasure from the insults Shadwell slung her way, so Crowley left them to… whatever that was.)</p>
<p>"Er, aye. Well, ah, Mr. Crowley, it is coming around to dues time—"</p>
<p>"I'll leave the funds with Newt, as per usual." He didn't trust Shadwell with a single shilling, so a few years ago he'd convinced Shadwell to hire Newt to keep the Witchfinder Army books in exchange for "mentorship." Shadwell stopped missing his rent payments to Ms. Thompson, R.P. Tyler toned down his threats to bring "the issue" with "that foul-smelling rabble rouser" before the council, and Crowley didn't have to find nearly as many excuses to avail himself of the Distinguished Army's services. Everybody won! (Except maybe Newt.)</p>
<p>And now he was decidedly done with this interaction. So, with a half-assed salute to Shadwell, which the other man returned far too seriously, Crowley sauntered further into the village and considered his options.</p>
<hr/>
<p>Aziraphale was considering his options.</p>
<p>One the one hand was the vintage waistcoat in a lovely light green silk that reminded him of ripe pistachios; on the other hand was a more modern waistcoat in a velveteen fabric the color of springtime honey. He liked to add a piece or two to his wardrobe with every landfall he made, if only to keep his collection of clothing from becoming completely archaic. However, there wasn't much room in his suitcase, so he had to take care. Come the end of his stay, anything that didn't fit would have to be abandoned.</p>
<p>Speaking of the end of his stay and when it might be feasibly arranged, he'd had the most horrifyingly enlightening conversation with Tracy and Anathema on the way over to Evesdale, which was the next town over from Tadfield and in possession of, he was assured, vastly superior vintage clothing options. Tracy had asked after a family of her and Anathema's mutual acquaintance. Anathema had heard from Newt, who the family occasionally employed for a spot of babysitting when they were visiting, that the family had returned to London early this season because the young boy had had an accident and broken his arm. "Something to do with the Them and the beach cliffs at night," Anathema had summed up, clearly hazy on the facts herself. The words had chilled Aziraphale like an unexpected arctic current.</p>
<p>It wasn't a sure thing, but he did have a hazy recollection of the boy's arm looking a little worse for wear when he was bundling him up in his selkie skin. And, so far, leading questions posed to people like Tracy and Mr. Sanderson after the makeup of the town left him with the impression that the number of young families with children roughly the right age wasn't high.</p>
<p>Somehow, he'd found the wherewithal to stutter out something to the effect of hoping the accident wouldn't put the family off of Tadfield for good. Tracy had scoffed at the idea, seeing as they owned the cottage outright, passed down through the wife's family; they were more properly part-time residents than true "summer" families. They'd likely be back for the winter holidays, or at latest when school let out for summer.</p>
<p>This brought him to his second set of options: He could stick in one place around three to four times longer than his normal jaunts on land and await the family's return, or he could attempt to very carefully and without coming across as creepily invested probe for more details on the family and attempt to locate them in London.</p>
<p>Neither option held much appeal. He knew trying to find one family with a common name in London without an address or telephone number would be like trying to find a particular herring within a massive, agitated school. However, the longer this dragged out, the more difficult it would be to justify his stay without having to reveal his cock-up to the pod. He'd strung out stays on land through two, even three, moon cycles in the past, but that was when he was able to travel far enough out to sea to send a message to Gabriel. As it was, he still had no idea how he might manage sending a progress report to alert the pod his stay could be longer than regulation.</p>
<p>"They're both lovely," Tracy said from near his left elbow, and Aziraphale startled so badly he nearly dropped both waistcoats.</p>
<p>"Ah, yes, rather." He pasted on a nervous smile as he tried to wrest himself from the depths of his thoughts. With a burst of desperate inspiration, he asked, "Which do you think I should get?" If Tracy picked left, he'd consider trying to make his way to London. If she picked right, he'd await the return of the family and work out a way to send progress reports.</p>
<p>"Why not both?" Anathema proposed as she came up on his other side. She had a long wool coat in a rather fetching purple-and-turquoise plaid draped proprietarily over one arm.</p>
<p>Aziraphale looked up into her expectant face and felt every word of his vocabulary shrivel up.</p>
<p>"Oh, there's a thought!" Tracy exclaimed. "A nice waistcoat is a statement piece, after all. Invest in these, buy a few more of your fancy button-ups in complementary colors, and we'll have you a proper wardrobe again."</p>
<p>He shook his head faintly as he turned back to look at her. "My bag. It won't…" he protested faintly before thinking better of it.</p>
<p>The damage was done, though. Tracy's whole face came over doleful.</p>
<p>"Aziraphale, love," she started, placing a soft hand on his upper arm, "pardon me for saying it, because I know I haven't known you for very long, but… you don't strike me as the type who would be very comfortable having to pack his whole life in just one suitcase. Would it be so bad? To make room for more?"</p>
<p>He told himself it was just because she didn't understand his circumstances. More than one suitcase wouldn't be practical given how far and how often he had to travel between his pod's various seasonal homes and human lands. And it wasn't like he stayed on land for more than a moon cycle or two at a time, and with the way human fashion was constantly evolving and the length of time between visits, it just didn't make sense to collect a wardrobe big enough to justify more than one case.</p>
<p>That didn't stop his eyes from unexpectedly welling up. Already, his bedside table had collected a handful of drying flower petals, a few books he'd picked up from work, and a natty doily from Anathema's shop that he'd purchased to cushion his evening cup of tea. They were small treasures, and ones he couldn't take back with him—there wasn't room on the winter skerry he shared with several other podmates. But it was one thing to know a small, secret, and mildly shameful thing about oneself and quite another to have a kindly woman who'd so generously shared her small space with you to not just acknowledge the habit but encourage it.</p>
<p>She clucked her tongue and rubbed her hand over his arm bracingly. "Oh, you dear thing, I can't say I'm sorry to have said it, because I think you should have nice things if you want them, but I didn't mean to upset you, either."</p>
<p>He was just starting to deny being upset, doing his best to blink back the moisture without letting it spill over, when he felt the weights lifted from his hands. When he turned, Anathema was already walking toward the rack with collared shirts, both waistcoats laid on top of her prospective purchase.</p>
<p>"Oh," he said, wanting to protest but still too shaken to think how.</p>
<p>"Never you mind, Mr. Aziraphale," Tracy said and slipped her arm through his in a more formal hold. "If you wouldn't like it, just say the word. But if you'll let us, Anathema and I can help get your feet under you."</p>
<p>He sighed, studiously ignoring the slight hitch contained in it, and fussed with his current waistcoat. "Please don't misunderstand. I am very grateful for how welcoming you all have been. It just seems a waste when I'm not sure how long I'll be around for."</p>
<p>"Doing things to make your life a little more comfortable—a little happier—is never a waste," she said firmly and started leading him toward where Anathema was quickly amassing an alarming number of shirts for him to consider. "If it's an issue of money, I could lend you a few pounds in exchange for some more of that lovely fish you caught the other day. And if you do decide to move on and find yourself needing to travel light, well, there's always a jumble sale going on somewhere in one of the nearby towns."</p>
<p>Aziraphale was glad she was leading him. He felt a little bludgeoned by all the offers and options. He swallowed twice before managing, "You're both… very kind."</p>
<p>Anathema snorted to herself and turned to hold up a shirt near his free shoulder, eyeing it critically. "Tracy is kind. I'm just honoring tradition. Here, I think we have enough for you to try a few outfits on. Let's head to the fitting room." She gathered up her finds and marched toward the back of the shop with the clear expectation that they would follow.</p>
<p>"I—tradition?"</p>
<p>At Aziraphale's flummoxed expression, Tracy gave him a smile that said she knew an absolutely juicy bit of gossip.</p>
<p>"Tadfield has a reputation for adopting people who haven't been able to make their home elsewhere. Take me, for example. Or Anathema. Her family has roots here—that's how she strong-armed Tyler into giving her a seat on the council—oh, you should have seen his face when Crowley was able to dig up some old diary of his great grandfather's that tied the Nutter line to the Devices that proved her case—but she and her parents both are American born. Even people who leave have a funny way of ending up back here if they can't find a foothold elsewhere. That's poor Mr. S—bless."</p>
<p>"How fascinating!" And it was. Humans, like selkies, had always struck him as largely tribal in nature, with some comings and leavings, naturally, but a strong tendency to close ranks when a stranger tried to ingratiate themselves in an established group.</p>
<p>"Absolutely, love. I know you're set on leaving at some point, but…" She shrugged and hugged his arm close, once, before ushering him forward where Anathema was holding back the curtain to the cramped fitting room.</p>
<p>"You have options," Anathema said when Tracy didn't pick back up. "If you decide to stay, Tadfield has room for all sorts. And don't tell him I told you this, but if you're ever stuck wondering where you fit, you can try cornering Mr. Crowley for advice. He has an… uncanny knack for figuring those sorts of things out."</p>
<p>Aziraphale paused on his way into the tiny space, turning back toward the two women.</p>
<p>"Why shouldn't I tell him?" It was just one of many questions he had about the enigmatic Mr. Crowley, with his gravity-defying saunter and mysterious, covered eyes, but it was the one that felt safest to ask, since Anathema had served it up for him so nicely.</p>
<p>Anathema rolled her eyes at the same time Tracy let out a peal of laughter.</p>
<p>"He's a bit of a mother hen—always keeping up on what's going on and helping out in subtle ways. But he is terribly attached to his bad boy image, so he doesn't like to let on that he cares so much," Tracy confided with indulgent relish.</p>
<p>Anathema was much more blunt: "He's a meddler... but, usually in a good way." At his pointedly raised eyebrows, she bobbed her head to the side and elaborated: "All right, so, about a decade ago, just before I got here, there was a big hotel chain that was courting the council, dazzling them with pound signs and promising to make Tadfield a tourist destination. But Crowley, who isn't even on the council, somehow convinced them to invest instead in helping residents build detached bungalows on their property and rent them out through an up-and-coming internet service called Airbnb."</p>
<p>She paused and raised her eyebrows significantly, and Aziraphale made what he hoped was a knowing expression back. He did know what the internet was, thanks to judicious speed reading in Mr. Sanderson's reference section during slow periods, and bed and breakfast establishments were quite the thing the last time he was on land, so he thought he more-or-less got the gist of what she was saying.</p>
<p>"Half the council thought he was mad," Tracy said warmly, "but he put a bee in R.P. Tyler's bonnet about making sure we have the 'right sort' of tourists in Tadfield. The old coot ended up doing the lion's share of arguing and wearing down for him. It means we don't bring in near as much money as we could during peak season, but we do well enough, and I think it's let us hold on to more of our small-town charm."</p>
<p>She shimmied her shoulders in a way that Aziraphale assumed she meant to be charming but which came across rather more lewd than likely intended. Then again, she had warned him she still accepted visits from a few very select clients she'd kept on even after her official retirement.</p>
<p>"Meddler," Anathema pronounced and then shooed him back into the fitting room.</p>
<p>Aziraphale turned the information over in his mind as he tried on the clothes, taking breaks to receive judgment from the ladies on color combinations and fit. Crowley had struck him as a busybody in their single meeting, but one more focused on flash than substance, given his outrageous posturing. But if he was as deeply rooted in the affairs of the town as Anathema and Tracy suggested, he might be a potential lead on the whereabouts of the Young family.</p>
<p>He was also, admittedly, quite easy on the eyes. And there was something magnetic about him…</p>
<p>Well, he'd seen the man lurking about the unofficial center of the village most late afternoons, just about tea time. Perhaps he could put himself in his way and see what sort of acquaintance might arise naturally.</p>
<p>"What do you think?" Tracy asked when he'd tried on half a dozen different shirts and both waistcoats.</p>
<p>He took a deep breath and glanced between the two women. Tracy offered an encouraging smile; Anathema merely raised her eyebrows, but the set of her mouth was soft.</p>
<p>"Both, I think," he decided, and then grinned when it truly hit him. It might not be for forever, but for at least a while he was going to let himself indulge in the welcome of this village and the space they were so ready to make for him. He couldn't perform an exuberant spiral in this form, on land, but he could wiggle happily, and that was its own sort of fun.</p>
<hr/>
<p>There was one expert in the area who would be sure to spot if there was something either in- or extra-human about the newest resident. But that was precisely why Crowley was reluctant to approach her.</p>
<p>The whole ecosystem of the village hinged on carefully curated grim tolerance: R.P. Tyler suffered Anathema's shop-museum despite the unsavory picture it painted of Tadfield's witch-hunting past because her social media acumen made Tadfield and specifically her museum a modest tourist destination. Anathema put up with R.P. Tyler and the council because they were a reliable source of grant money for improvements to the shop. They both endured Shadwell because, while he provided strident word-of-mouth marketing for the legitimacy of Anathema's occult business, he was just off-putting enough that he scared off the sort of pearl-clutching tourists R.P. Tyler found rude.</p>
<p>Crowley had worked very hard over many years to ensure the ecosystem would be more-or-less self-sustaining for at least half a generation. A nudge here, a suggestion there, and Tadfield thrived without growing beyond its charmingly sleepy means. Big enough Crowley could claim it as a territory worth keeping an eye on without it being so big that the Fay Court cared to question his reports or would insist on sending another fay to assist him.</p>
<p>However, everything—absolutely everything—hinged on discretion. Any small town was a difficult place to keep a secret; if one person knew what he was, the whole village would hear about it by sundown. He knew what happened to villages that had "proof" fay existed and to the unlucky fay who let themselves get caught. The last thing he needed was Lucifer deciding to call a Wild Hunt.</p>
<p>The point was: he steered clear of Anathema on very specific and life-threatening principle.</p>
<p>At least she didn't keep an iron horseshoe above the shop door like she did her cottage he thought glumly as he slunk inside and lurked near the counter. He eyed the giant lump of pyrite sitting next to the decorative register (she had it primarily for the aesthetic and secondarily for the occasional customer who paid with "real" money over chip and pin). His fingers itched to bestow the stone with a mild curse, but he wasn't convinced she wouldn't be able to tell and seek witchy revenge.</p>
<p>Before he could give in to his baser instincts, Anathema swept through the doorway that led to the museum half of the shop in a rustle of black crepe and lace. She pulled up short when she spotted him.</p>
<p>"Crowley."</p>
<p>"Hi."</p>
<p>"You're in my shop."</p>
<p>"Yeah..."</p>
<p>She narrowed her eyes from behind glasses just as round as his but clear. He wondered not for the first time if they were actually prescription or just for the Look.</p>
<p>"This is about Aziraphale, isn't it," she accused.</p>
<p>He groaned and leaned back against the counter. "I just want to know what his deal is."</p>
<p>"Then you should ask him," she said with a venomous smile and then continued through the shop until she'd put the counter between them. "Now that that's settled, will you be purchasing anything today?"</p>
<p>He pulled a face at her. "You know I don't believe in this claptrap." He didn't believe in bothering with it, at any rate. Why mess about with churlish ley lines and intricate rituals when you could plug in directly to a supercharged extradimensional force? It was one of the few reasons he bothered maintaining his ties to Court, to have unrestricted access to the old homeland.</p>
<p>"Then you're welcome to see yourself out," she said with a patronizing hand flourish toward the door.</p>
<p>"Ugh, no, come on, you have to give me something, here." He wrinkled up his nose. "Does he seem, I dunno, a little…?" He wasn't really sure what word he was searching for—that was the whole point of this visit—so he settled for waving his hand around his head vaguely, hoping to indicate something about auras or something.</p>
<p>Anathema folded her hands neatly over one another on the counter. "You know I don't like to make assumptions about someone's orientation, and it hasn't come up in conversation. If you're that keen, just ask him on a date and see how it goes. Fortune favors the bold, Crowley."</p>
<p>"Ngk."</p>
<p>"Now, if you're not going to buy anything, kindly get out of my shop. You're menacing the quartz." She laid a protective hand over the bowl of impulse-purchase pendants.</p>
<p>He tamped down the immediate and urgent desire to give the quartz something to be properly menaced about—he swore sometimes she knew exactly what sort of bear she was poking and was all the more smug for it—and settled for giving her the two-fingered salute on his way out of the shop.</p>
<p>That was officially the last of his from-a-distance options tapped out. Which meant there wasn't anything for it but to try to, eugh, actually get to know the man.</p>
<p>He could just leave it alone, he supposed, but…</p>
<p>Well, not really his style.</p>
<hr/>
<p>"Good afternoon, Mr. Crowley," Aziraphale called, pitching his voice just loud enough to reach the shadowy alley between the cafe and grocery where he'd spotted a lurking hint of red.</p>
<p>Crowley startled like a pufferfish, elbows and shoulders arching up and looking extra pointy, before he recovered enough to jerk his head around and glare in Aziraphale's direction. Or, well, Aziraphale presumed he was glaring; it was a little difficult to tell with the sunglasses, and he'd recently observed the man's expression defaulted to something taught and just a bit grim. It was no wonder he had such a strange reputation with the village, honestly.</p>
<p>"Yoo-hoo!" He twiddled his fingers in a cheerful wave and nodded toward the empty chair facing at his terrace table. "I'd like to beg a moment of your time, if you'd be so kind as to indulge me."</p>
<p>The man's mouth flattened even further and his head seemed to sink down into his shoulders in beleaguered affront at the request. Aziraphale ruthlessly twisted the corners of his own smile up to compensate. Kill them with kindness, he thought the phrase went.</p>
<p>It took an awkwardly long minute, during which time Aziraphale felt his cheeks start to stiffen up from so much manic smiling, but finally the other man slouched his way out from the relative shelter of the alley and crossed to Aziraphale's table.</p>
<p>"What's this about?" Crowley asked shortly when he drew abreast of the chair. His fingers fluttered over the back for a moment before he gripped it, jerked it back just enough that the armrests were free of the table, and collapsed into it sideways so his legs extended obnoxiously into the path between tables. He completed the little drama by folding his hands over his abdomen and favoring Aziraphale with an exaggeratedly affected lift of his eyebrows.</p>
<p>How absolutely insufferable, Aziraphale thought, a touch impressed by the theatrics of it all.</p>
<p>Well, if kindness wasn't the trick, he might as well enjoy himself a little.</p>
<p>"Oh, terribly sorry to impose," Aziraphale said in his mildest tone. "I do hope I'm not keeping you from any important skulking." He took a pointed sip of his tea even as he maintained firm eye contact.</p>
<p>The bitchy riposte, a little surprisingly, earned him a tiny flinch of a smile before Crowley turned away and lofted an arm in a negligent arc toward the cafe proper. He grinned cheekily at someone inside.</p>
<p>"Nah, nothing I can't reschedule to later," Crowley drawled and then pitched his voice up. "Brian, I'll take an espresso—ta."</p>
<p>Aziraphale glanced over and saw a messy head of hair ducking back in through the door and thought he recognized the boy he'd seen sweeping the floors when he'd been in earlier to order his tea and scone. It was not, so far as he knew, a cafe that brought orders out to its customers. He frowned to himself and then to Crowley.</p>
<p>"He's learning how to use the machine," Crowley explained, a little smug.</p>
<p>"... Why do I get the feeling he's not exactly sanctioned to use it?"</p>
<p>Inside there was a muffled squealing sound followed by solid thunk and then the aggrieved rise and fall of the cafe owner's voice.</p>
<p>"Never learn if you don't try," Crowley remarked sagely and then fully turned his attention back to Aziraphale. "Now, what did you want me for, Mr. Fell? A favor?" He said the word with what was, to Aziraphale's mind, an indecent amount of relish.</p>
<p>He tutted and fussed with the placement of his cup in its saucer. "We barely know each other—I would never be so gauche. No, I simply wished to better make your acquaintance. Tracy and Anathema have such nice things to say about you, I thought it a shame we hadn't talked more."</p>
<p>Now there was a proper, unmistakable scowl. "Oi, if we're going to be acquainted, you should know up front that I am not nice."</p>
<p>"Kind, then."</p>
<p>"<em>No</em>."</p>
<p>He couldn't help rolling his eyes. "Oh, well, what a relief. I already have so many nice and kind acquaintances. It will be quite invigorating having a certifiable curmudgeon to associate with."</p>
<p>Crowley barked a laugh and then looked about as startled as Aziraphale felt at the sound. He schooled his features to something closer to smug and oozed down even further into the chair. Oh, but Aziraphale thought he had his number now; he hid a triumphant smile in his cup.</p>
<p>Crowley drawled, "Curmudgeonly Crowley, that's me." His lips twitched. "You're a bit of a bastard, aren't you?"</p>
<p>Aziraphale blinked widely and set his cup back down with all the fussy aplomb he'd picked up in his brief brushes with the noble classes during the latter parts of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. "I have no idea what you mean, my dear fellow."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Eyyyyyyyyy, it only took two chapters, but let the bicker-flirting friendship commence!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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